"Are you frightened?"
That's the tipping point, the words he knew would get
her out of her chair. She throws a defiant glare his way.
Nebula? Scared? The thought alone is preposterous, at
least to anybody that knows her well enough. And even
if she is scared, fear has never been a paralytic. Quite
the opposite in fact. Her jaw is still set so hard she's
sure he can hear the grinding of teeth, and her fingers
grab at his extended open hand a little too harshly. But
she gets to her feet with as much grace as somebody
who knows how to kill with her body alone is capable of.
(Which is, to say, a lot.)
Ronan has the decency not to smirk.
She does hesitate when they reach the edge
of the floor, but he doesn't blame her. This is
the kind of thing she hasn't learned to do yet
and all of a sudden her feet are too large and
her hands too small, legs and neck too stiff.
With a gentle tug, he pulls her against him,
one hand sliding to her waist, the other turning
so that their palms press together, hands now
lifted at shoulder height. After another stiff
moment, her free hand moves to rest on his
shoulder, and his head nods in the barest of
affirmations; just another lesson, less deadly
than some of their others.
It's a waltz, the easiest kind of dance. Graceful and rhythmic
and natural. "Let me lead," he murmurs low enough for her
ears alone, and he takes the first step, the hand at her back
firmly guiding. Her head tips down, brilliant locks of hair filling
his sight---- she's trying not to step on his toes. That alone is
enough to push the corners of his mouth up.
"Don't look at your feet, look at me."
She does so almost immediately, a reflex of
following orders. One he's almost positive she
hates, despite her absolute efficiency. Her eyes
are bright, and her jaw is still tight at its hinges.
He can see the cables of her tendons standing
out beneath the pale skin of her throat, thinks
about what that little hollow just above the dip
of her collarbone must taste like--------
"Count slowly," he continues, his
own eyes flicking back up to hers.
He has to bow his head to look at
her, even though she's in heels.
There's a steady knot of tension he can feel at
the small of her back, just beneath the silk of her
dress. He only pulls her closer, eyes dipping down
to full lips. He's seen them red before, with blood
climbing the cracks, likes them that way too.
She's more self conscious than she's ever been,
swaying about in a room full of strangers that are
staring besides, and he nearly winces when her
fingers tighten around his hand in a vice-like grip,
black nails digging into his skin. "What are you
staring at?" She hisses under her breath. He
only smiles and shrugs, eyes sliding away
towards the door. He has her pressed so close
he can feel the edge of the knife she has tucked
beneath her dress against his thigh.
"Time to pay our friends a visit."
She relaxes for the first time since they got on
the dance floor, a deadly smirk curling her lips.
Without another word, she twists out of his arms
and he spends a moment watching the sway of
her hips before following her towards the door.
